The Rose

The Rose

Rain

Dripping, drizzling, soaking every square inch of the cracked, weedy sidewalk.  Along with anyone unlucky enough to be out in it.

I shuffled along the sidewalk, stepping over muddy puddles here and there, cursing the power outage that had not only cost me hours at work, but had also spoiled most of the contents of my refrigerator.

I thought of the plans I had made for my mother’s birthday.  Ruined, now that I had lost a full day’s pay, and had to spend a king’s ransom on groceries.

Rain, rain, go away…

I turned up my collar and pulled my hat down a little tighter as the rain picked up, seemingly out of spite.  Whatever did I do to deserve this?

I glanced around the street, littered with garbage.  Most of the other residents had driven their functional cars to other parts of the city, which still had power.  The vehicles that remained hadn’t moved in months, their tires sagging to the pavement and buried in weeds, giving the appearance that the cars themselves had taken root in the sorry excuse for asphalt on the street’s surface.  Oil oozed from under some of these cars, creating a nasty puddle that could very quickly destroy perfectly good shoes on the unwary traveler.

Down the street I heard the ear-rending trill of a school bell, sending a barrage of pint-sized banshees squealing out into the rain for a small gasp of freedom between lessons.  All too soon, the bell would scream again, sending them back into their dark, dismal classrooms to have more truth, knowledge, and utter nonsense pounded into their little skulls by overworked, underpaid, exhausted instructors.  I could almost hear the vaguely comforting mantra they whispered every few minutes.

Two more months.  Two more months.  

April showers were supposed to bring May flowers, but so far, all this storm had brought was gray, depressing mud.

It wasn’t like there were a lot of flowers to be seen on Pocatello street anyway.  Hardly anyone bothered with them.

Ahead of me I heard raised voices as a husband banged out the door, his wife chasing after him.  He had a briefcase in hand, his hair hurriedly shoved into place as he scuttled to his yellow Neon.  “I have to go now, I’m already late!  Stupid alarm clock…” he cursed under his breath as his fumbling hands dropped his keys into a puddle.

“Honey, please, all I’m asking is for a little help here,” she pleaded, holding her jacket tightly around her slender frame.  “Just...could you paint the fence this weekend?  That’s all I ask.”

He glanced at the peeling fence that surrounded their house, one of the few with a small yard, with grass and weeds and little else.  He then looked around the street, and grunted.

“No one else does,” he snapped.  “Why should we bother?”

“What does it say about us if we don’t care?” she rejoined tartly.  “And what would it say if we at least made an effort?” she pressed.

“It says we like wasting money and time,” he responded in a snide tone.  He tossed his briefcase into the car and slid in.  “I have to work late tonight on the project.  Don’t wait up.”

He revved the engine and screeched out of his parking place.  From the desperate look on the wife’s face, I figured I knew just what this “project” was.  I wondered what she looked like.  Blond, brunette, redhead…

The wife turned, glancing briefly at me, then hurried back into the house.  She slammed the door behind her, but not before I heard a muffled sob.

I just shook my head and continued walking.  This place had never looked more ugly.

The rain was finally starting to abate.  But it continued to drip from the leaves of the scraggly gingko trees that lined the street, a few starting to show the pale yellow green of spring.  A particularly large drop landed square on the back of my neck, making me shudder.

A few houses further down, I stopped.  I looked up.  This house was abandoned, like so many others in the city.  The bank that now owned it had at least had the sense to board up the windows and doors.  The roof was missing some shingles, and I couldn’t help but wonder how moldy the inside was.  This was a Victorian, crafted with care so many decades ago.  Now, its hand carved wood and inlaid tiles were left to rot.  The structure seemed to be in good repair, but not for long.  

My attention was drawn to something on one side of the gate.  It was a rosebush.  And rising up from the mildewy leaves, as if in defiance of the state of disrepair around it, was a single, delicate, pink rosebud.

I came closer, staring at that one little rose.  Its twin, on the other side of the walk, had long ago succumbed to mold and boring insects.  This bush looked not far behind.  But in its own small way, it continued to try, continued to fight for life.

As I came nearer, I noticed a few tiny green insects crawling about on the rose.  Aphids.  My mother had declared war on these nasty creatures in my growing up years in the suburbs.  Between her constant vigilance, and the plethora of ladybugs she released every other year, aphids were a rarity anywhere in our neighborhood.

A strange surge of emotion ran up my neck.  I was angry.  I reached out with one gloved hand and started brushing away the insects.  This rose was the one thing of beauty I had seen this entire morning.  I couldn’t let the aphids so carelessly destroy it.  I was determined to save it.

“Oh, that won’t work.  They’ll just come back.”

I turned to see someone standing behind me.  It was a woman, in a long gray raincoat, with a small bag in her hand.  A single shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and shimmered on her raven hair, her red lips curved in a smile of amusement as she watched my vain ministrations.

I found myself utterly speechless.  She looked like an angel, a guardian sent to the aid of one tiny, pitiful pink rose.  Stepping back, I watched as she approached the bush and drew out a small bottle from her bag.  

I recognized that bottle, and couldn’t help smiling.  My mother usually preferred natural remedies for garden pests.  But every once in a blue moon, she would use a chemical treatment when one of her beloved plants faced a serious threat.  The bottle this woman carried was aphid powder.

Pulling back the safety cap, she lightly tapped the bottle, sprinkling a generous dusting over the rose.  I could almost hear the aphids’ squeals of horror as they fled the Armageddon that was being rained down on their hideous heads.

She capped the bottle again, and replaced it in her bag.  “I’ve been watching this bush.  It must have been so beautiful once.  It’s sad.  But...it wants to live.  I know it does.  I’m trying to help it.”  She glanced at me with a blush on her cheeks that made my knees weak.  “Does that make me sound crazy?” she asked in a small voice.

“N-no.  No.  Not at all, not in the least,” I stammered, trying desperately to get hold of my voice and my wits.  I managed a rueful smile of my own.  “After all, I was trying to brush the little buggers off with my hands.”

She laughed at that, and that laugh penetrated every fiber of my being.  

“I was so glad to see the rain this morning,” she said, making me wonder at her sanity.  “We’ve been in a drought you know, and the plants around here don’t get watered much.”

“Yeah.  I was just thinking about the rain,” I said, wisely refraining from giving her the context of my thoughts.  I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty that I had been hating the rain that was so badly needed by so many things in this big, uncaring city.

“I have to get to work now,” she said, with a strangely wistful tone.  “I just moved here, and I really need to keep my boss happy.  But I’ll be back tomorrow to see how it’s doing.”

“Sure.  Great.  I’ll bring some pruners for the dead wood.”

I had no idea where that had come from.  I didn’t even own pruners.  But I swore by every power that existed that I would comb the whole county for pruners if I had to.

Her smile widened.  “Wonderful!  I would hate to see this rose die.  It’s so pretty.”

Then she turned, and walked away.  But the warmth of her smile stayed with me, enveloping my entire body.

Or maybe that was the sun.  It had finally chased away enough of the clouds to show just a bit of blue sky.  A bit that was rapidly expanding.  I glanced at the old house, making note of the name of the bank manager in charge of that property.  Maybe.  Just maybe...

I continued on my way down the street, lifting my head and looking around.  The trees were stretching their limbs up to the sky, their green leaves reveling in the life-giving sunshine.  The rainwater sparkled on the roadway, looking like a thousand tiny diamonds.  The light cast rainbows over the oil puddles, shimmering with a hundred different hues.  Down the street, I could hear the happy laughter of children as they ran about the playground, balls thumping rhythmically on the blacktop in their games, the whap of a tetherball being struck by an eager hand, the creak of the chains on the swingset.

I noticed a car approaching, and watched interestedly as the yellow Neon returned to its spot in front of the house.  The wife came out on the porch, her reddened eyes widening as her husband emerged from the car.

In his hands were a dozen red roses, and a large heart-shaped box that was most likely candy.

I drew back discreetly behind a tree and watched, listening to their conversation.

“Honey, is everything okay?  Why are you home?”

He laughed a little.  “The customer called while I was driving.  They are changing all of the requirements, so I have nothing to do until they get us the changes.  And…Happy Anniversary, my darling.  I took the day off so we can be together.”

She threw herself into his arms, clinging tightly to him as he pulled her into his embrace.  I felt a bit of remorse for having judged him so badly.  With the recession so fresh in everyone’s memory, was it any wonder he was so stressed about his job?

The two pulled back, making plans for a late brunch at a trendy restaurant in the up and coming neighborhood five streets over.  Then, after handing her the flowers and candy, he reached back into his car and pulled out a can of white paint and two brushes.

“Now that it’s stopped raining, and I have a day off… care to help me?  We can let things dry while we eat, then come back and get started.”

“Of course, honey.  And maybe we can plant some roses?”

Their conversation faded as they went into the house in search of a vase.  I continued on my walk down the street, taking a deep breath of rain-washed air.  Soon enough summer would come, its heat baking the sidewalk, radiating off of buildings, slowly broiling everything in sight.

A bird started singing from its nest in a nearby tree.  I could see just a few buds on that tree, a rare flowering pear amongst the gingkos.  A light spring breeze rustled awnings of a store across the street, sending a shower of glittering raindrops flying into the air.

Pocatello street had never looked more beautiful.

With love,
Aria